The Sheik Retold(61)

The heat was intense, and every moment the tent seemed to grow more airless. The Persian hound in the next room whined from time to time, until he pushed his way past the curtain and stalked across the thick rugs to nuzzle his shaggy head against my knee, whimpering and gazing plaintively up at me. When I finally took notice of him, he reared up, thrusting his wet nose into my face. I caught his head in my hands and rubbed my cheek against his rough hair, crooning over him softly. Even the dog was comfort in my loneliness as we waited together for the master.

I pushed him down at length, and with my hand on his collar, we went into the other room. A solitary lamp burned dimly. I crossed to the doorway and pulled aside the flap, and a small, white-clad figure rose up. "Is that you, Gaston?" I asked.

Normally the question would have been unnecessary, as he had always slept across the entrance when the sheik was away, but I was not aware until now that he had risen from his sickbed. Although Gaston's devotion to the sheik had been extended to me almost from the start, his loyalty and unvarying deference astonished me. He had always treated me with unfailing respect and had never betrayed by a single word or look that he was aware of my real position in his master's camp.

"A votre service, madam," he replied.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

He smiled. "Happily, I am well enough to serve you again, madam."

"I never thanked you properly for all you did—"

"It is nothing." He flushed in embarrassment. "Please let us not speak of it." For a few minutes Gaston stood silent. "Madam is not tired?"

"It is so hot. The tent was stifling. I had hoped for some air."

"Madam, veut du cafe?" he suggested tentatively. Gaston's devotion was of a kind that sought practical demonstration, and coffee was his universal panacea, but in the heat it sounded almost grotesque.

"No, it is too hot."

Gaston heaved a tragic sigh. His own nerves were steel, and his capacity for imbibing large quantities of black coffee at any hour of the day or night unlimited. "Une limonade?" he persisted hopefully.

I felt a hysterical desire to laugh, which nearly turned into tears, but I checked myself. "Thank you, Gaston." I conceded to let him bring the cool drink more for his pleasure than for my own.

It was still very airless, even out of doors. I peered into the darkness, but there was little light from the tiny crescent moon. I moved a few steps forward from under the awning to look up at the brilliant stars twinkling overhead, and a stab of pain went through me. I had gazed at them so often from within Ahmed's arms. Would I ever again watch them sparkling against the blue-blackness of the sky, with the curve of his arm around me, and the steady beat of his heart under my cheek? Would anything ever be the same? A weary sigh broke from my lips. "Monseigneur is late," I said, straining my eyes again into the darkness.

"He will come," replied Gaston confidently. "Kopec is restless. He is always so when Monseigneur is coming."

I looked down at the dim shape of the hound lying at the man's feet and then with a last upward glance at the stars, turned back into the tent. Gaston, the embodiment of practical common sense, had soothed my nervous apprehension more than he could ever know.

I picked up the fallen book and forced myself to read. Although my eyes followed the lines, I could comprehend nothing. All the while my ears strained to catch the earliest sound of his coming.

At last it came. Only a suggestion at first—an intuition. I started with expectancy, hardly breathing, listening intently. For a moment there was a confusion of voices, a jingle of accoutrements; one of the horses whinnied, but the stir caused by his arrival died away quickly.

In the ensuing silence I heard him approach. There was a murmur of conversation, the sheik's low voice and Gaston's quick, animated tones. I waited motionless, my hands gripping the soft mattress until my fingers cramped, breathing in long, painful gasps, as I tried to slow the labored beating of my heart. In spite of the heat, a sudden coldness crept over me. My gaze fixed anxiously on the curtain dividing the two rooms.

By his passing shadow I knew he was pacing up and down, as he always paced when he was deliberating anything. Once he paused near the communicating curtain, and the scent of his tobacco filled my senses, causing my heart to give a wild leap, but then he moved away. His restlessness made me uneasy, especially when he had been in the saddle since early dawn.

I gave a quick, impatient sigh. In spite of his renewed strength and his laughing protests, I could never forget how he lay helpless as a child, too weak even to raise his hand. Nothing could ever take the remembrance from me or the fact that in his fevered delirium, he had confessed his love. The thought gave me a moment's fierce pleasure, but it faded as suddenly as it had come. I had seen no evidence of tender feeling in weeks.

At last the divan creaked under his weight, and Gaston brought in his supper. His first words provoked an exclamation of dismay from the Frenchman, which was hastily smothered with a murmured apology. Then other voices were in the room. I recognized Yusef talking volubly, half in Arabic, half in French, but lapsing more and more into the local vernacular, as he grew excited. I could picture him squatting before the sheik, scented and immaculate, his fine eyes rolling, his slim hands waving continually.

At last he went, and the aroma of boiling coffee filled the tent. I could imagine Gaston's deft fingers manipulating the fragile glass and silver appliance. I could hear the tinkle of the spoon as he moved the cup, the splash of the coffee as he poured it, the faint click of the cup being placed on the inlaid table. Why was Ahmed drinking coffee when he always complained it kept him awake? At night he was in the habit of taking mint tea. Surely, tonight he had need of sleep. It was the hardest day he had had since his illness.